Homemade
by A Deed Without a Name
Summary: Dean is studying culinary arts in Denver, while his longterm boyfriend, Sam, attends Stanford in Palo Alto. Every week for months now, he's mailed Sam a care package of his baking. And now Dean's made plans to come out to California for Christmas, but for some reason, Sam seems...reluctant. WARNING: Contains unrelated Wincest, stuffing, feeding, chubby!Sam, and encourager!Dean.
1. Part 1

**Ho boy. Sorry that this (and the others) are so late...I just started school, which translates to much less time to write. And which also might be why this...isn't that great, in my opinion.**

 **This probably has the least plot of anything I've written in a while.**

 **And, wow! I've gone a little crazy with the Dean POV, considering that the last three pieces I've published have been written in it. It's kind of a nice break, I have to say, after I practically drowned myself with the wry, intelligent Sam POV in _Catching Hell._**

* * *

Even compared to the little backwater Kansas town Dean had grown up in, ice storms blowing in off the prairie from September to May, Denver was cold as hell. The air was so dry it seared the inside of his nose and throat as the temperature dropped down into the teens and below - not to mention thin. They didn't call it the Mile High City because of the booming medical marijuana industry. Dean had been panting and wheezing after sprinting to class for the first few weeks of the semester, the natives snickering at him and the other lowland transfers giving him sympathetically glances. And sucking wind when it was freezing out didn't really contribute to his efforts not to burn his airways raw.

He broke down and bought himself a big, puffy coat from a ski shop after toughing out a few days of the vicious wind blowing down off the snowcapped mountains. He was sure he looked like a black marshmallow waddling around campus. He broke down and bought a tube of medicated, super-strength Chapstick after toughing out a week of cracked, bleeding lips. He was sure that he smelled like a girl (the damn thing just had to be cherry-scented). He broke down and started drinking tea after toughing out a couple weeks of the absolute havoc that using coffee to keep himself warm wrought on his innards. He was sure that everyone thought he was some sort of vegetarian hipster nutjob.

It didn't take long for Dean to decide that he hated Denver winters. Hated the cold, hated the snow, hated the ridiculous dryness. But there was one good thing about it, and that was Christmas break. Or winter break, according to his overly-PC student handbook (he'd been agnostic verging on atheist since grade school and hearing people call it Christmas break had never killed him - he still celebrated Christmas). He had over a month off, which had probably been planned out so students could go home and spend the holidays with their families. But there was nothing back in Lawrence but his mother's grave and his father's abandoned garage. The only thing he cared about had moved to California right after high school. Palo Alto, specifically, on Stanford's dime, since he'd been just special enough for them to offer him a full-ride academic scholarship. So that was where Dean would be heading.

The thing he cared about was named Sam, and he guessed it was just a little crude to call him a "thing." He was six feet and four inches of brunette hair, dewy eyes, and supple, warm tan skin. All of which Dean had started appreciating a lot more than he thought he should around the time they were sixteen. Dean was only four months older than Sam and the kid had been practically sewn to him for as long as he could remember, the two of them growing up as neighbors in the closest thing that lily-white Lawrence had to a ghetto, so their relationship had developed as quietly and naturally as Dean's hair lightened in the summer.

Despite the stress of hiding that from a community (including their families) whose opinions had never really moved out of the fifties, they hadn't even talked about whether or not they were going to give the long-distance thing their best shot when those letters showed up in their mailboxes. Dean supposed that they just both assumed that nothing but the space between them was going to change. That meant a near-daily avalanche of phone calls, handwritten letters (even though Dean had never been great at that kind of thing), texts, and e-mails. And the care packages that Dean shipped to Sam every weekend.

He'd looked after him since they were too small to open the refrigerator door on their own. Patched up his scrapes and cuts, made sure he was eating and drinking enough when they went into school and sports, picked fights with everyone who thought they could push him around. He couldn't do all of that anymore, but Friday night, he could bake cupcakes, cookies, muffins, breads, cake rolls, cream puffs, and brownies. Things he'd learned how to make perfectly in the classes he needed for his major. And Saturday morning, he could pack all that stuff into a cardboard box, sometimes with a short note he hoped got his feelings across, cart it down to the nearest post office, and pay what it took to overnight it to California. He always put enough in for Sam to share the love around his dorm. Maybe make some friends. Just because he was too surly to get along with the trust fund babies he was living with now didn't mean Sam had to be.

Even with everything else they'd worked out (like the calling schedule that wouldn't wake either of them up), they hadn't really made any solid plans about what was going to happen over break, or even talked about it. So Dean decided to be cute. He scribbled something out on a piece of notebook paper, asking Sam what his break looked like and what day would be a good one for him to come out. He dropped it into the last box that he'd be mailing before his own break, right on top of the rum cake, then got it going in the usual way. He felt good, happy, looking forward to a call from Sam. He got it Sunday afternoon, in the middle of studying for the algebra final that he had the next day - which wasn't something he'd ever been able to see himself doing before the middle of the semester. College was making a nerd out of him.

He grabbed his phone - an older model with a cracked screen that was blurry with thumbprints - on its second ring, answering it with a grin.

"Hey, Sammy," he greeted. "Betcha can't guess what I'm doing right now."

"Please tell me you're not cooking," was Sam's reply. Dean couldn't quite tell if he was joking or not.

"Baking," Dean corrected him, flipping his book shut and leaning back in his desk chair. He didn't want to think about algebra while he was talking to Sam. "I bake. Mostly. And I only do that on Fridays." He paused, considering, before he admitted, "Well, and in class, I guess."

There was a soft noise on the other side of the line. Dean squinted, unable to place it. Sam cleared his throat and asked, "So if you're not baking, what're you doing?"

"Studying," Dean said proudly. He heard Sam whistle. "Yeah, I know. Hell must've frozen over, huh?"

"C'mon," Sam replied. "I knew you had it in you. I mean, yeah, you...kind of didn't try at all in high school, but college is definitely more important." That same sound again. Maybe something was broken in the satellite that their voices were bouncing off of. If he actually understood how cell phones worked. "D'you need any tips?"

"Nah. My roommate needled me into going to this seminar thing," Dean replied, glancing out the window that his desk was wedged in next to. It was snowing again. Lightly, but still. He couldn't wait to get to California. "Y'know. The one I told you's always skiing down in Aspen? Anyway. Boring as hell, but I guess I learned a lot." He abruptly spun himself away from his desk, his chair creaking so loudly he was sure that Sam could hear it. "Buuut I don't really feel like talking about my finals, and I'm sure you don't feel like hearing about 'em."

"Well, what about _my_ \- " Sam began, sounding almost playful. Dean cut him off.

"I _definitely_ don't wanna hear about those, Matlock," he replied. "If culinary finals are just about boring enough to put me to sleep, I don't wanna find out what kind of effect law finals'd have on me." He stared at the flimsy door that led out of his small freshman dorm room. "I wanna talk about the fact that I'm gonna be able to come and see you in a week."

He was sure that that was why Sam had called; it was about the right time for him to have opened the box and seen the note. Sam didn't really say anything, though. The only thing that came through Dean's phone was that weird sound - again. It sounded a little familiar.

"What _is_ that?" Dean asked, half to himself.

"I don't know," Sam responded, so fast that it was almost painfully obvious that it wasn't true. He'd never exactly been awesome at lying. Unlike Dean.

Whatever, Dean could let it go. Maybe Sam had dropped his phone or something and was embarrassed about it.

"So, I'd kinda like to get out there as soon as possible, but if you'd rather I stayed put for a few days, I could do that, too," Dean continued, glossing over the thing with the sound. "Whatever works for you. I just need to know today. I've got the money for a ticket, and I wanna get it early."

"Dean, if you've got extra money, you should spend it on books, or - food," Sam replied. He sounded concerned. "Not a ticket to California."

"Scholarship pays for my books," Dean replied. He didn't really like to think about that scholarship. Sam probably did, though, considering he was the one who'd helped him apply for it after pushing him into agreeing. "And there's no way I'm gonna run outta food. Not in my major." He smirked a little, fully aware that Sam couldn't see his expression. "What's the matter, Samsquatch? Don't wanna see me?"

"I - " Sam began, before stopping abruptly. He sighed into his phone, producing a crackling noise. "Of course I wanna see you. I mean, I flew out early, so it's been almost six months. I miss you." That was more along the lines of what Dean had been expecting to hear. "But I just don't think...that you should come out here this time."

Dean mulled that over for a few seconds, pushing at the inside of his cheek with his tongue. Once he was satisfied that he couldn't come up with a simple reason for Sam to say that, he asked, "You got big plans or something? You wanna go home?"

"No - no, I don't think my dad wants me there." Sam sighed again. "He doesn't need to know about... _us_ to be pissed at me."

Dean was sympathetic. He'd met Sam's dad. The guy would probably be a lot more dangerous if he didn't spend most of his time actively trying to pickle himself, but still. If Sam wasn't going home, though...

"Then why the hell don't you want me out there?" he asked, frowning at the door. He crossed his ankles.

"It just...isn't a good idea, right now," Sam repeated, awkwardly.

"Yeah, that ain't gonna cut it, Sam," Dean replied, folding his free arm across his chest. "And I think you know it. It's the holidays - we've both got a ton of time off. Can you really think of a better time for us to be together?"

"Spring break?" Sam attempted. "That might be better. We'd have practically the whole campus to ourselves."

"Well, why can't I come out there for spring break _and_ Christmas break?" Dean asked, starting to get frustrated. Usually, talking to Sam had the opposite effect on him. "I want a reason, Sam."

Sam didn't answer. Again. The sound came back, though, rolling out of the speaker on Dean's phone a couple times in rapid succession. He just ignored it. It probably wasn't important.

"Sammy?" Dean pressed.

"I'll tell you later," Sam said finally. "I'll explain it all later, when I've got it all taken care of. You'll probably think it's funny."

And that totally didn't sound weird or suspicious. Dean cleared his throat, shifting his position in his chair before quietly saying, "Sam. D'you not want me to come down there 'cause...there's somebody else now?"

When Sam replied, almost instantly, he sounded shocked and almost hurt. "I'm not _cheating_ on you, Dean. How the hell could you even think that? I'd never - "

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry, shouldn't've asked that, forgot you mate for freaking life or whatever," Dean interrupted. Maybe it'd be fun to listen to Sam profess his undying love for him (or say whatever it was he'd been planning on), but considering that he didn't even want to see him for Christmas, it'd sound a little hollow. "You're not cheating. Sorry."

"Yeah, okay," Sam said, not sounding very convinced. Hypocrite. Dean heard the sound for the millionth time, and he finally realized what it was.

"What're you eating?" he asked, feeling better as he relaxed back into his chair with a smile. He loved knowing that Sam was eating his baking. His psychology professor would probably say that it was because of some kind of stunted nurturing instinct. "The rum cake? I thought about making a fruit cake, but then I - "

"I'm not eating anything," Sam said, so firmly he cut into what Dean had thought was actually a pretty funny story. He heard something crinkle, like Sam was shoving it away from himself. It sounded like the wax paper he'd wrapped the cake in.

"Okay, then," Dean said, more confused than offended.

"We can talk every day," Sam told him, apparently eager to change the subject. "For as long as you want. But I don't think you should come out here."

"Okay," Dean repeated. He slowly turned back to his desk, sensing that the conversation was just about over. "If you really feel that strongly about it?"

"Thanks." Dean probably would have been able to hear the relief in Sam's voice even if he'd been deaf - it was just that obvious. "I...I'll talk to you later, okay, Dean? I've kinda got somewhere to be."

"Yeah, all right," Dean agreed, and Sam hung up. He took the phone away from his ear and stared down at it in his hand, like answers to his questions, which just kept getting more and more confusing, might suddenly flash across its battered screen.

Dean knew two things for sure - or had _thought_ that he knew them, at least. The first was that Sam would never lie to him or cheat on him. The second was that Sam would never not want to see him if he had the chance. Since of those clearly wasn't true anymore, it only stood to reason that the other might not be, either.

So Dean shoved his algebra book out of the way, reached for his bulky secondhand laptop, and bought an AmTrak ticket to Palo Alto without thinking about it. He was going to get to the bottom of this, whether he liked what he found or not.

Finals were hell. Everything his casual acquaintances (he didn't really have friends) had told him, every seminar he'd attended - it hadn't prepared him. The week was so emotionally and physically grueling that, when the blaring of his alarm bored straight into his brain at four-thirty on Saturday morning, he spent almost twenty minutes seriously thinking about whether or not he really wanted to go. He was pretty sure that he was actually asleep for half that.

When he finally hauled himself out of bed and turned his phone off (good thing his dickwad roommate was still in Aspen), he almost hit the floor with exhaustion. But, somehow, he managed to get ready, grab his duffel, and just barely catch his train. He slept the whole way, which he thought helped him feel less like a zombie, and which no one else on the train really seemed to mind. It was mid-afternoon when he got there, and an hour later than it was in Denver, but he could deal.

Dean caught a taxi to the Stanford campus. He hoped that Sam wasn't too pissed about him coming out to lend him some money, because he was burning through his cash rapidly. Why was everything so damn expensive in California? At least it was a hell of a lot warmer than Colorado, even in December.

Sam had told him his building and room number awhile back, just something casual he'd let slip, and Dean still remembered it. Which was a stroke of luck. But he couldn't help but feel uncomfortable as he hiked across campus with his duffel bag slung across his back, searching for Sam's dorm. Dean couldn't honestly say he'd ever given a shit about what other people thought about him, but he just couldn't shake the feeling he didn't belong here, in his heavy, worn-in leather jacket and workboots and oil-stained jeans. Everywhere he looked, he saw polos and Swiss Army laptop cases and haircuts that'd probably cost more than his phone. None of these yuppies had had to work at a garage through October to pay for their meal plans. Most of them probably weren't here on scholarships or loans, either. Dean swallowed, sure that every single eye in range was on him right now. It was a relief when he found Sam's building and could duck inside.

The first floor pretty much seemed to be just a lobby, with a lot of couches and chairs that looked more comfortable than Dean's bed. So he went up to the second floor. There were rooms up here. Most of the doors were closed, but he could hear people moving and talking behind them; he thought to himself that most classes were probably over for the day before he remembered that it was Saturday. And break. Jesus, he was tired.

Pretty much every door had a name on it - or two, if it was a shared one. Magnets, stickers, permanent marker on the bare surface (Dean thought that that one might be against the rules), pieces of paper haphazardly taped up with crayon or pencil scribblings on them. More often than not, there were bumper stickers and posters and team logos under the names, but Dean wasn't interested in those. He read the names as he walked, ignoring the few other people out in the hall. Kevin and Denny. Robert. Luke. Casey and George. Jan and Antonio. Dao and Jake. Leslie (Leslie? That was a guy name?). Sam.

Dean stopped in front of the last one. This door had one of the paper-and-pencil signs taped to it, Sam's full name printed neatly on it. One of the tape pieces had had lost its stickiness, so the upper right corner had peeled off. Dean checked the number. Yep, this was it. He shifted the strap of his duffel bag on his shoulder and knocked on the door.

A desk chair rolled inside the room. Feet padded on the crisp, clean-looking carpet of the dorm. Dean folded his hands, standing in a parade rest position as the door opened.

He only got the briefest possible impression of Sam. Caramel-colored hair tucked in waves behind his ears. Face freshly shaved, probably as of this morning. T-shirt loose and baggy and actually, Dean realized, one of his own. Bitch must have stolen it right before he came out here. Dean barely had time to take that much in, because almost as soon as Sam saw him, his eyes widened, and he slammed the door.

Considering how adamant he'd been that Dean not come out and see him, Dean had been more or less expecting this reaction. He rolled his eyes, huffing a sigh out through his nose, then knocked on the door again. It occurred to him that Sam probably hadn't even locked it, but he probably already wasn't too happy with him. He didn't want to make it worse by barging into his room without his permission.

"Open the door, Sam," Dean instructed, raising his oice a little so that he'd be able to hear him through it.

"What the hell're you doing here, Dean?!" Sam exclaimed from within the room, voice muffled. And panicked. "I thought I told you not to come out here!"

"Yeah, you did," Dean replied, laying his hand, palm flat, against the door. "But something about that just didn't seem right to me. So I came anyway. To try and figure out what's going on with you."

Sam didn't seem to have a response for that. Only silence came through the door. So Dean started knocking on it again, since he wasn't about to let Sam forget that he was out here. And he wasn't leaving until they talked.

A couple of the guys who were out in the hall seemed to have noticed that something was happening. Finally. Dean wasn't sure that Stanford kids were really all that smart. He saw one walking over out of the corner of his eye, a guy who'd been leaning against an open doorway and talking to whoever was inside the room. He stopped all but pounding on Sam's door (his knuckles were getting sore anyway) and turned to face him. He had an unlit cigarette in his mouth and seemed to be unconsciously sucking on it, and he was wearing glasses.

"Is there something going on here?" he asked in a Georgia twang so pronounced it almost sounded fake, stopping a few feet away from Dean and shoving his hands casually into his pockets.

"Obviously," Dean replied. He could feel himself being sized up. Judged. He wondered how long it'd take this guy to get campus security in here to deal with him, and guessed that he was probably thinking the same thing, going by how he was looking at him. "But nothing that has to do with you."

"Well, I'm not so sure - "

Sam's door opened again, and both Dean and the yuppie with the cigarette automatically glanced towards it. It hadn't opened very far, and Sam was kind of leaning around it, so all that Dean could see of him was his face and one shoulder. He was looking awkwardly at him.

"I guess...you can go ahead and come in, Dean," he said slowly. "Y'know. Before you get in a fight with my dormmates." He cast a quick glance at the Georgian, who raised his eyebrows.

"This that baker boyfriend of yours, Sam?" he asked curiously as Sam ducked back into the room and dean pressed the door open further so he could make it through. Dean turned and shot him a shit-eating grin over his shoulder.

"Sure am," he confirmed, and the guy grinned back.

"Those red velvet cupcakes you shipped out here were something else," he told him. "You sure got some talent."

Dean blinked, surprised. "Thanks." He'd sent the cupcakes all the way back in September. He couldn't believe he remembered them. He stepped through the doorway.

Sam shoved the door closed behind him, then dropped onto his bed. The room was small enough that he could do that. Sam didn't have a roommate, and the room definitely wasn't built for one. The twin bed, desk, chair, and combination wardrobe-dresser were all crammed in as tightly as they could get, and there was still just barely enough free space for Dean to stand without his duffel touching anything.

He gave it a critical once-over, noting the small posters and pencil sketches that Sam had very obviously done that dotted the walls, then looked back down at Sam. "Nice digs," he commented before dropping his duffel bag and sitting down next to him.

Sam smiled weakly. He was hunched over, elbows on his knees. "Yeah, well, that's the price I've gotta pay for not breathing somebody else's air."

Dean snorted softly. "Never pegged you as antisocial. Or germaphobic. Or whatever the hell that was."

"I just didn't want a roommate," Sam replied, shrugging. He seemed to be loosening up a little bit, much to Dean's relief. "Maybe I would've been okay with it if the dorms were co-ed, but another guy..." He trailed off, looking at Dean, and his eyes were so full of puppy-dog innocence and anxiety that he had to look away. He got it: sharing a room with a guy who wasn't his boyfriend would have felt too much like cheating to Sam. He'd wondered why he never mentioned a roommate during their phone conversations.

"I shouldn't've come out here," Dean said, saying the realization that he'd just had out loud before sighing heavily. "I should've known better than to think you were lying about...about cheating, and just taken your word for it."

"No, you...I think you had a right to be suspicious," Sam said. His voice was soft. Dean practically had to strain to hear him. "I mean, you didn't have any idea what was going on. I should've just sucked it up and explained why I didn't wanna see you."

"So why didn't you?" Dean asked, looking at Sam again. In response, he dropped his gaze and hunched over even further.

"I-" he began, sounding like he was completely uncertain of how to continue. Dean wasn't surprised when he didn't.

"You what?" he asked him, leaning towards him a little. He wasn't quite sure if he wanted to intimidate him, or if he just wanted to get closer. "Are you trying to hide something there?"

Sam immediately shook his head, but before he'd even stopped, Dean had stood up, standing in front of him and grabbing his shoulder. He was frustrated. Sam had literally _just_ told him that he should have explained what was up before he bothered to ride all the way out here, and now he was back to trying to hide it from him. He wasn't going to just let it go this time.

He hauled up on Sam's shoulder. Sam yelped as he was forced to straighten up. Dean stared down at him, expecting to see - well, he didn't really know what he expected to see. A bullet wound. A chestburster. A note saying "I'm sleeping with someone else." But all that was there was a round, gently-curved potbelly, just barely large enough to make the fabric of (Dean's stolen) T-shirt snug against it, and a pair of pillowy love handles above his hips.

Dean stared down at Sam. There was absolute silence between them as the seconds ticked past. Sam's eyes were so wide that white was visible all the way around his kaleidoscope irises, and a dark blush was slowly rising in his cheeks. Eventually, Dean gave up on waiting for him to say something (as his cock, inexplicably, twitched). He folded his arms over his chest and admitted, "I don't get it."

Sam blinked up at him, lips parting slightly, looking like he was at a complete loss for words. It didn't last long, though, because then he burst out with, "What the hell d'you mean, you don't _get_ it?"

"I don't," Dean repeated. "What're you freaking out about?"

Sam stood, all of a sudden. Dean was forced to press his back against the wall, and even then, there was only a few inches of space between them. This room was really ridiculous; Dean's was more than twice its size, and he only shared it with one other person.

"Don't you _see_ this?" Sam snapped, sounding borderline-panicky. He moved, and Dean glanced down to see that he'd put his hands on his stomach, squeezing it slightly.

"Yeah, of course," Dean replied. "Freshman fifteen. Kinda expected it. I mean, yeah, you're sort of a gym rat, but you also get freaked out real easy, and you were pretty chunky back in middle school - "

"'S more like the freshman thirty," Sam mumbled, looking away from him and angling his head so his hair (an inch or two longer than Dean remembered it being) fell over his face.

"Yeah? So?" Dean asked, still not getting it. He hadn't gotten it when Sam had started making a concentrated effort to get rid of his baby fat five or six years ago, either. Sure, muscles were nice. He and Sam had both had fairly powerful physiques since they were around fifteen, but the difference between them was that, while Sam's had been built on their high school's track and in its weight room, Dean's had come from the hours he'd logged in his dad's garage and toting around toolboxes and carrying bags of sugar and flour (though that last one had really only happened at college). In Dean's opinion, there was nothing wrong with some extra padding, and muscles weren't worth it if you had to actively work for them. Sam thought very differently. Obviously. "Why the hell is this such a big deal? Look, I've put on a few, too. Kinda hard not to, with my major."

He lifted the bottom of his shirt, exposing his lightly-freckled stomach. It'd been more or less flat before school started, but it wasn't like he'd had a six-pack or anything (he thought. Not like he'd spent a whole lot of time looking at it). Now, it was softer, about a plush inch of sugar and carbs covering the muscles. Sam didn't even glance at it, though.

"I was gonna fix it before you saw me in the spring," he mumbled, still looking away from Dean. "That's why I wanted you to stay where you were this time. I've been hitting the gym every day...trying to watch what I eat..."

Dean noted that he put a little more emphasis on "trying" than he strictly needed to, but he brushed it aside because he was actually impressed. Hitting the gym every day during finals? That took some serious commitment.

"Okay," he said, nodding. Sam had dropped back down onto the bed, giving them both a lot more room. "Good for you. But, y'know, you can still do all that. Get that beach body ready for spring break." Sam was doing that annoying thing where Dean wasn't sure if he was listening to him or not, staring down at his socks and Dean's boots. "If it'll make you feel better. 'Cause I really don't care."

Sam groaned, so Dean assumed he'd been listening after all. He straightened up, leaning back so his shoulders rested against the wall, and pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. It was a familiar gesture, and Dean had seen him make it about a million times before. Always when he was stressed or frustrated. This time, it seemed to be both.

"Shut up, Dean," he mumbled, hands still pushed up against his eyes. "I'm not five anymore. You don't have to try and make me feel better about being fat."

"You've got a little pudge," Dean replied. "Doesn't mean you're fat."

"Shut up," Sam repeated, though there wasn't any real force behind it. Dean rolled his eyes. Occasionally, Sam was more like a younger brother than a boyfriend.

"Yeah, okay," he agreed. "But you really don't have to pout like this. Like I said, I don't mind the belly." He paused, and decided to just go ahead and take the plunge, giving voice to something that had been tiptoeing around in the back of his mind since he'd first caught a glimpse of Sam's new poundage. "In fact, I kinda _like_ the belly."

Sam snorted.

"No one likes extra weight on guys," he muttered, not moving an inch. "I'm not stupid, Dean."

"Well, no," Dean admitted. That much was clearly true. "But you are are acting like it right now." He lifted one of his knees to his chest so that he could unlace and tug off his boot.

"So it's 'stupid' to be upset that my physically-freaking-perfect boyfriend is seeing me fat?" Sam snapped, finally dropping his hands and glaring at Dean through slightly-puffy eyes as he set his boots next to his duffel.

Dean folded his arms across his chest, standing in front of Sam with his sock-covered feet planted shoulder-width apart. He was still tired from finals, and he was kind of sore from sleeping on the train. He hadn't seen his boyfriend in months, and even though he'd hit every tall brunette in town during high school, that meant he hadn't had sex during that time. He just wasn't in the mood to give Sam the space he probably thought he needed right now. That, and he doubted he could afford a motel room for the night, unless he wanted to hitchhike home.

"Well, you're obviously not gonna believe me no matter what I say," Dean declared, and Sam raised his eyebrows slightly in a "you think?" kind of way. "So I guess I'm gonna have to do something else."

Sam opened his mouth, presumably to snark out some skeptical, self-loathing reply. Dean didn't let him. He leaned in, just like he'd done a thousand times before, put his hands on either side of Sam's head, and fitted their mouths together. It felt good, after going for so long without it - better than he'd expected, even. Sam tasted...sugary, which Dean hadn't really expected, after his rant about how he was trying to be healthy or whatever. He cooperated with the kiss for a few seconds, pushing up against Dean and letting his tongue wander into his mouth, but then he pulled back and shook his head to get it out of Dean's grip.

"Cut it out," he commanded, giving Dean an irritable shove with one hand. "I'm really not in the mood right now, Dean."

"Okay. So we won't have sex," Dean replied agreeably, leaning back down to brush his slightly-chapped lips along the line of one of Sam's pronounced cheekbones. "I feel kinda weird about having sex in a dorm room, anyway."

"No. I just don't want - " Sam cut himself off with a little, involuntary-sounding gasp as Dean dropped his mouth down to the side of his neck, planting his hands on the mattress on either side of him.

"Yeah, you feel gross right now," Dean mumbled against Sam's soft, lightly-stubbled skin. "Or something. I'm gonna fix that."

"Stop it, Dean..." Dean felt Sam's breath hitch in his throat as he moved a little lower, to his collarbone. He wasn't fat; the ridge of it still jutted out obviously.

"D'you really mean that?" Dean asked huskily, feeling himself begin to twitch and stir in his boxers as he ran his tongue over Sam's clavicle, tasting him for the first time in months. When he thought about going even lower, to something softer, he practically shot right up.

Sam didn't answer this time. He leaned away from him, and for a second, Dean thought that he was trying to cockblock him again. But, no, he was just slowly laying down, swinging his legs up onto the small bed. Dean adjusted his position to match Sam's, getting on all fours above him and straddling him. He stared down at him. Sam's pupils were blown wide, and his irises glowed amber in the sunlight pouring in through the half-opened blinds on the window.

"I missed you so goddamn much," Dean said bluntly. Seeing Sam again after being separated from him for more than a semester was like living with chronic pain for six months and then finally getting a hit of morphine.

"I missed you, too," Sam replied, sounding vaguely guilty to Dean. "Sorry."

"For what?"

"For getting - "

"Yeah, never mind." Dean was pretty sure he knew what Sam was going to say, and he was also pretty sure that he didn't want to hear it. He lowered himself but kept his knees where they were, like he was doing a girl push-up. He kissed and nuzzled the smooth hollow of Sam's throat, smirking a little as he tipped his head back appreciatively, then moved down and kissed his breastbone through the fabric of the T-shirt that he was wearing. It smelled entirely like Sam now; Dean couldn't find any hint of himself. Not that he really knew what he smelled like.

Dean worked his way down, forcing himself to go slow even though he didn't want to. Along the flat stiffness of Sam's sternum, fingertips digging into the light comforter he was laying on, and finally down to where he really wanted to be. The swell of his clearly well-fed stomach. Dean supported himself on his elbows so that he could hook his thumbs under the hem of Sam's shirt and roll it up to reveal his middle. Sam shuddered under him, and Dean was sure that he'd be blushing again if he looked up at his face. He half-expected him to try to get him to stop again, or to at least tug his shirt down, but he stayed where he was.

Dean pressed his nose and lips into Sam's belly, just reveling in the softness of him for...a few seconds, maybe, or a few minutes. He wasn't really keeping track of time. This was a totally new experience for him, since Sam had already been taut and hard the first time Dean had really put hands on him, in the back seat of his car. He inhaled the irresistible, familiar scent rolling off of Sam's warm skin, affectionately nuzzling into the thick padding right below his navel. He had to go pretty deep to hit the layer of muscle underneath it, and that discovery had more blood pooling in his groin.

He brought his hands down to cup Sam's love handles, groaning softly at the way they jiggled a little when he touched them. He critically eyed the waistband of Sam's jeans, digging into the soft flesh in a way that suggested it was a size or two too small for him, then planted a gentle kiss on the slim trail of dark brunette hair that peeked out of it.

"I _really_ like the belly, Sam," Dean said, voice muffled by Sam's stomach. He felt him shudder again, and it sent the hard bulge in his too-small jeans bumping against Dean's throat. Dean couldn't help but smile.

"Why?" Sam grunted it out, voice rough in a way Dean definitely recognized.

"I dunno," Dean admitted, lifting his head so he could peer at Sam over the curve of his belly. "I just do. Maybe I think it's cute. Maybe I'm actually a little bit of a chubby chaser." He grinned at Sam's soft snort, then let go of his love handles and pushed himself up. He crawled along the bed until he could lay next to Sam. Just barely. On his side. The bed was as ridiculous as the room that it was in. Dean put a hand on the dome of Sam's pudge and kissed his ear. "Anyway. This is a super nice belly, Sam...kinda makes me wonder how you got it." He hoped he wasn't going too far. The words were just rolling out of his mouth, the same way they usually did when he was horny and around Sam. "You must really like the caf food here."

He felt a little spike of regret when Sam squirmed against him. He should've just kept his big mouth shut. He'd already known that Sam was self-conscious about this.

"Well, that's...that was part of it, yeah," Sam admitted with a sigh, and damn if that didn't pique Dean's interest.

"'Part of'?" he parroted, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look curiously down at Sam. "Then what was most of it?" Belatedly, he added, "I mean, if you don't mind me asking."

"...I guess I don't," Sam replied warily. "You probably have a right to know. Since it's another reason I didn't want you coming out here."

"Well, now I _really_ wanna know what it is," Dean said. He couldn't think of any overlap between why Sam had gained weight and why he didn't want to see him.

Sam cleared his throat, like he was embarrassed. He lifted a hand, laying his forearm over his eyes before mumbling out his answer. "Your, um...y'know those boxes you've been sending?"

Dean frowned for a beat, and then he got it. His care packages. His huge boxes of pastries, packed with more than enough for Sam to pass some out to his dormmates and still have plenty left for himself. Except maybe Sam hadn't been sharing. Maybe the guy Dean had talked to outside had remembered his red velvet cupcakes because they were the last things of his he'd had. Maybe Sam had been snacking his way through the entire box over the course of each week.

Thinking about that made Dean's cock pulse hotly. Sam sitting at his desk every night, studying, macaroons or brownies or - or rum cake, he remembered suddenly, next to him, taking absentminded bites even though his stomach was already bloated with sweets. _Packed_ with them. It was Dean's turn to shudder now, and with the way he felt, he was actually surprised he didn't just come in his pants.

Dean gave Sam's stomach a little squeeze, being careful not to hurt him. He'd made that.

"What're you thinking?" Sam asked. He moved his head slightly on the pillow, so he could look at Dean. "D'you feel bad? Because you really should. I'm twenty-two pounds heavier than I was when I left Lawrence, and it's all your fault."

"I know," Dean replied, and it came out as a growl that even surprised him. Sam blinked, eyebrows inching towards each other.

"Are you okay?" he asked slowly. Dean closed his eyes for a second, nodding as he rolled his wrist against Sam's belly without really thinking about it, lightly massaging the pillowy softness.

"Yeah," he assured Sam, voice still rough. He didn't say anything for a few seconds, letting the relative silence that always filled dorm buildings stretch out as he tried to decide what the best way to tell Sam what he was thinking right now would be. It was harder than he would have thought, given that he'd known him practically his whole life. "'Cept I think I just found out I'm a whole hell of a lot kinkier than I thought I was."

Sam frowned at him, but like he'd said before, he wasn't stupid. He got what Dean was talking about almost immediately, and his frown deepened. Dean swallowed the urge to lecture him about premature wrinkles, like he'd done in high school.

"Oh, no," Sam said, slowly starting to shake his head. The shaking got faster and firmer as he kept talking. "No. No way. You can't - you can't _possibly_ be turned on by _this_." He gestured disgustedly to his stomach.

Dean shrugged, not very bothered by Sam's reaction. His freak-outs weren't anything new to him.

"Well, it ain't really something I can _help_ ," he pointed out. Very reasonably, he thought. "I mean, it's sex. It's sexuality. I can't help being bi, either."

Sam was stonily silent in response to that, eyes cast down towards his feet, and Dean knew he'd given him a point that he really couldn't argue with. No one knew better than the two of them that you couldn't choose what you liked.

"Actually, I'm kinda surprised you aren't happier about this," Dean commented when Sam didn't say anything. "Considering how strung out you were about what I was gonna think about this." He affectionately patted Sam's little belly, which his hand was still comfortably resting on. Sam squirmed, like he wanted to shove his hand off, but couldn't quite bring himself to do it.

"Of course I'm not happy about it," Sam replied irritably. "I hate this." He put his own hand on his stomach, next to Dean's. "I wanna get rid of it. And then I found out that it gets you hot."

"Well, if you're really that bothered by it..." Dean dropped his head and sighed softly against Sam's temple before nuzzling into his hair. "Then you can do whatever you want. You can keep going to the gym every day while I'm here. I'll come with you, and talk to you or something. We can eat salads and boiled chicken and tofu and all that stuff." He could feel Sam relaxing incrementally against him as he spoke. "It won't be a big deal. Just 'cause I've got a kink doesn't mean I'm gonna break up with you if you slim back down."

"Pretty sure I already knew that, Dean," Sam mumbled, but Dean thought he was breathing easier now.

"There's just one thing I want you to do for me. Tonight." Dean kissed Sam's temple as a plan percolated in his mind. He didn't know how this was going to go; he might be sleeping on one of the comfortable couches down in the lobby tonight.

"What?" Sam asked. The wary note from earlier was back in his voice.

"I wanna see you eat for me," Dean replied, heart starting to race in his chest at the thought. "As much as you can."


	2. Part 2

**It occurs to me that, maybe, I should have waited until around Christmas to publish this fic...oh, well. It's not all that Christmas-y, anyway.**

* * *

Sam balked at the idea, which Dean had expected him to. It wasn't really a surprise that he didn't want to gorge himself in front of his boyfriend, even though it seemed like that was what he'd been doing in the privacy of his room for months now. He complained that it was dangerous, that he'd get sick, that it would cancel out the work he'd managed to do this week. He absolutely refused, he said, to do something that degrading and humiliating in front of Dean. He seemed convinced that it would ruin their relationship.

Dean had a sneaking suspicion that Sam was less worried about being embarrassed and more worried that Dean would be disgusted by him if he let him watch him fill himself up. There wasn't any danger of that happening, and Dean could put those worries to rest. So he played dirty.

He didn't actually say anything, fully aware that trying to argue with Sam would probably just lead to a shouting match. He just held him as Sam listed all the reasons he didn't want to do this. Stroked his hair. Kissed his neck. Gently and rhythmically rubbed his belly. Sam's reasons and voice grew weaker and weaker as time went on, and he finally broke after around forty-five minutes of Dean's physical persuasion

And that was how they'd ended up where they were now: sitting across from each other in a secluded booth at a cheap but (according to Sam) popular all-you-can-eat buffet.

The buffet was locally owned, but was just as clean and generic as any chain Dean had ever been in. He'd already forgotten its name. The only really special thing about it was that Saturdays, apparently, were pizza nights - which was great, because pizza was one of the few things that Sam and Dean both really liked.

Dean watched Sam study his first plate, which he'd taken the liberty of filling for him. It had three slices on it, identical to his own: plain cheese, pepperoni, and meat lover's. The meat lover's was Dean's revenge for Sam being an evasive asshole about the whole visiting thing; he knew he hated that particular type of pizza. Picking up his slice of cheese, he cleared his throat. "You actually gonna eat it, or just glare at it?"

"Are you going to match me or something?" Sam asked, moving his eyes to Dean's plate and failing to answer the question. Dean shook his head, taking a bite of his cheese.

"Nah," he replied through a full mouth. _Not this time_ , he thought to himself, and his dick, hard for what felt like hours, stirred once again between his legs. "But I happen to like all these kindsa pizza, and I didn't eat lunch." And breakfast had been a protein bar and a water bottle, so he was doubly starved. He swallowed his mouthful of cheese pizza.

Sam sighed heavily. He put his hands on the table on either side of his plate, palms flat, fingers spread. He glanced up at Dean through his eyelashes, his worried puppy-dog expression.

"You're gonna make me do this all by myself, aren't you?" he asked. Dean took another bite.

"Yep" he confirmed, nodding. "Now. Sam." He swallowed and leaned forward, fixing Sam with what he hoped was a very intense gaze. _"Eat."_

After a very brief hesitation, Sam finally did. He unrolled the blue napkin that had been wrapped around his silverware and used the knife and fork to start in on his first slice (the cheese). Dean, who hadn't touched his own silverware, dryly thought that Stanford seemed to be making Sam's collar whiter by the day. He ate slowly, but Dean couldn't deny his pace was steady, washing every few bites down with the thick vanilla milkshake that Dean had ordered for him before he could say a word to the waiter. They got unlimited refills for an extra four bucks, and of course Dean had paid it.

The cheese was gone soon. Sam even ate the crust of it, which came as kind of a surprise to Dean because he'd always left that part of the slice alone before. Dean had used to eat his crusts. The pepperoni got the same treatment, then Sam moved, reluctantly, onto the meat lover's. A look of grudging shock flashed across his face with his first bite. Dean, halfway through his own bacon-and-sausage-studded slice, grinned across the table at him.

"Good, huh?" he asked. Sam gave a little nod and swallowed.

"Yeah," he admitted, taking another bite. "It is, actually."

The last slice was gone and the milkshake was drained around the time Dean finished. Their waiter practically popped in out of nowhere to replace their empty glasses with full ones, and they got up together to refill their plates. Dean let Sam wander off, guessing he could be trusted on his own this time. Feeling close to satisfied, he hit the dessert bar himself. He steered clear of the fruit pizza, maneuvering a slice of giant cookie onto his plate and a slice of something that looked like ice cream pie. When he got back to the booth, Sam was already there and eating, plate stocked with another three slices. Hawaiian, some spinach-and-mushroom abomination, and meat lover's again. Sam raised his eyebrows when Dean set his plate down and slid into the booth, swallowing a mouthful of pizza before he spoke.

"Dessert already?" he asked skeptically. Dean smirked.

"Guess I just don't have quite as big of an appetite as you, Sammy," he said, electing to actually use his silverware this time. Sam blushed heavily, staring down at his plate. But he didn't stop eating.

Dean cleaned his plate. He really liked the ice cream thing. He set the plate and his fork aside, and the water appeared to take it away as he nursed the Coke he'd ordered for himself and watched Sam. He'd sped up a little, and it looked like he was enjoying himself now, relaxing as he ate and drank. It made warm pulses of arousal travel down Dean's stomach, to his cock. When Sam was finished, he pushed his empty plate away from himself, then pressed the back of one hand to his mouth to stifle a quiet burp.

"Okay," he announced, glancing cautiously at Dean. "I think I'm full."

"You _think_?" Dean pounced on that flicker of uncertainty, pulling his lips off the red straw floating in his half-empty glass.

"I _am_ full," Sam amended.

"Okay, you're full," Dean allowed. Pushing his Coke out of the way, he put his forearms on the table and leaned on them. "But you're not _stuffed_." He paused for a moment, to let that sink in. He liked that word. Stuffed. "You haven't eaten as much as you can."

"I'm not gonna make myself puke just 'cause you're suddenly a chubby chaser, Dean," Sam replied with a little bite in his voice.

"I'm not asking you to make yourself puke," Dean responded. "I'm just asking you to fit in as much as you can."

Sam still looked unsure. Dean coaxed, "C'mon, baby boy, it's just this once." He nudged Sam's foot, in a beat-up Nike, with his own under the table. "Just one more plate."

"One more plate," Sam repeated, like he wanted to make sure Dean would hold to that.

"One more plate," Dean confirmed.

Sam got up. A little grunt of effort slipped out of him, and Dean saw why: his stomach had grown. There were six slices of pizza in there, and the hem of his ill-gotten T-shirt had ridden up slightly. He had to be heavier. He headed back over to the buffet tables, and Dean crossed his legs in an effort to squeeze his erection down.

Right before Sam got back, it occurred to Dean that he might decided to interpret "one more plate" as "one more slice on a plate." But, no, when he sat down, there were three slices on his plate once again. He picked up his fork and tore into them with determination. Dean watched with awe as his hazel eyes slowly fluttered closed with pleasure as he ate. He'd really wanted more - hell, of course he wanted more, if he'd been trying to watch what he ate, then he'd been starving himself for at least a week. He just didn't want to pig out in front of Dean. Obviously, he still didn't quite believe that the idea of him pigging out got Dean's engine going.

Sam stifled another burp when he finished, then reached for his milkshake glass, about half-empty. As he sucked on that, he dropped his free hand below the table, to his belly. It was probably starting to hurt, Dean realized. He wanted to go over there, put a hand on his bloated middle, and start rubbing and massaging. But that would have to wait until later. He didn't want to get thrown out of the restaurant because someone thought he was groping his boyfriend.

There was a raspy sucking sound as Sam drained his glass. He set it down and licked a drop of melted ice cream off of his upper lip. He tried to clear his throat, but was interrupted halfway through by yet another burp. Dean couldn't help a smirk.

"I think I could do another plate," Sam mentioned, casually. Dean felt his smirk dissolve, and he had to try pretty hard not to moan.

"Okay," he said, and swallowed. "Okay." He crossed his legs the other way. "Well, go. Go!" He gestured jerkily to the buffet tables, and Sam grinned. He was finally getting it.

Sam planted his hands on the table and pushed himself up with a groan. Dean swallowed again as his stomach came into view. His shirt had ridden up further, and his jeans had ridden down, exposing a strip of rich tan skin. The flesh didn't look nearly as soft anymore; it was becoming taut, stretched, with all the food Sam had already eaten. And it was going to get worse. Or better, in Dean's opinion.

Sam got a fourth plate, even though it looked like it was getting harder and harder for him to get up and walk. He ate its contents without any problems, and this time, there were four slices of pizza on it, instead of three. Dean had to dig his fingertips into his thighs to stop himself from trembling. He'd had no idea what kind of effect this would have on him.

When Sam was done, he leaned away from the table, tipping his head back against the cheap vinyl of the booth and closing his eyes. He puffed a deep, satisfied sigh out through his nose. Dean watched intently as he put both hands on his stomach, and began to gently knead at it, judging by the motions of his arms. He could just barely see the top of it over the table, swollen and rounded with Sam's shirt pulled tightly across it. He was huge.

"Dessert?" Dean asked roughly, even though there was absolutely no way Sam could possibly have any room left. Not when he was this unbelievably full.

Sam opened one eye, regarding Dean almost lazily, and slowly nodded.

"Sure, that sounds good," he agreed, and Dean's breath hitched in his throat. "But..." Sam shifted a little, grunting. "You're gonna go have to get it for me. I don't think I can stand up. Too - " He interrupted himself with a slight burp. " - full."

"Jesus _Christ_ , Sam," Dean growled, toes curling inside his boots and cock leaking in his pants. "For someone who was so gunshy about doing this, you sure are milking it for all it's worth."

Sam just smiled. It was a slow, close-lipped smile, reminding Dean of the expression an overfed tomcat might have while sunning itself in a window, and it was so goddamn _satisfied_ , so _content_ , that he started to seriously wonder if he wasn't going to end up coming untouched in this stupid restaurant.

He grabbed Sam's plate and scrambled to his feet, making a beeline for the dessert box. He was walking a little awkwardly to accommodate his erection, and he hoped no one would notice how hard he was. Though if they did, they'd probably just brush it off, seeing as he was eighteen and could probably pass for younger if he wanted. He was entitled to awkward boners.

Dean snagged a slice of that ice cream thing for Sam. And a slice of the fruit pizza, because god knew he'd probably like that. With those two slices on the plate, he turned to head back to the booth, then stopped, hesitating. He didn't have to go easy on Sam. Sam sure as hell hadn't been going easy on him tonight. So he turned back to the table and grabbed a slice of the cookie. A slice of a giant, circular brownie. A slice of an apple crisp pizza. A slice of something that just had cinnamon, sugar, and butter on top.

With the plate piled practically to overflowing, Dean went back to their booth, finding that Sam hadn't moved an inch and that the waiter had come around again, seeing as Sam's milkshake and his Coke were full again. When Dean set the plate in front of Sam and sat back down across from him, Sam opened his eyes and looked down at it. His heavy, well-groomed eyebrows rose towards his hairline.

"You have some serious faith in me," he commented.

"Well, just go ahead and do what you can with it," Dean replied, shrugging nonchalantly. "I don't really expect you to eat the whole thing."

That was a lie. And he got the feeling that Sam knew it, with the look that he gave him as he picked up his fork once again. But he started eating anyway. Probably at the same pace as the beginning, but to Dean, it was infuriatingly slow.

Sam spoke once, about a minute after he started, in order to say how good it tasted. After that, there was silence between them for a long time. Sam ate - gorged himself, really, leaning forward so that his already-stuffed belly spilled heavily into his lap. Dean imagined he could hear its fattening contents sloshing when he moved. He himself pressed the heel of one hand, hard, into his crotch, and didn't even try to stop his wrist from moving as he watched Sam work on the dessert he'd gotten for him. He knew how to pick his battles.

Sam ate the cookie. Made it through the ice cream. Finished off the fruit. He closed his eyes after that one, and belched quietly. As he dropped his fork and flopped back against the booth, breathing hard, Dean did his best to cram down his disappointment. He didn't really have any reason to be feeling like he'd been let down; Sam had packed away a ton of food. The same as around half of one of his care packages, he guesstimated, and those were big boxes.

Feeling better (especially when he realized that he was going to get to play with that huge stomach as soon as they got back to Sam's room), Dean reached over to move Sam's plate to the edge of the table. He was saying, "All right, that's awesome, don't feel bad about it. You did great. I'll go ahead and call us a - "

"I'm not done," Sam interrupted, cutting into Dean's warm rambling. Dean lifted his eyes to him and blinked, wondering just what it was he meant by that. He looked pretty done.

"Taking a break?" he guessed, tentatively. Sam shook his head, opening his eyes a liquid slit.

"I'm getting pretty full," he replied. He paused, like he wanted Dean to puzzle over that, then continued. "You're gonna have to feed me."

There was really no way that Sam should have been able to push Dean's buttons so perfectly, considering that this thing was brand-spanking-new to both of them. But, then again, he'd always been a master at reading Dean when it came to sex, and everything else, too. Not that it really mattered all that much. The point was that Sam had somehow said exactly the best thing, and Dean's dick felt like it had been struck by lightning. He stared at him, mouth gaping, and didn't manage to say anything for about a minute. Sam misinterpreted his slack-jawed silence, and a little bit of his (much) earlier self-consciousness crept back in.

"I mean...only if you want to," he said uncertainly, sitting up straight to try and hide his stomach. The movement made him wince. "Only if you're okay with it. We can just leave if you want."

"No, no, no," Dean said, shaking his head emphatically as his tongue started working again. He raised both hands. "Sam - Jesus _Christ_ , Sammy, of course I wanna do that, I think that thinking about it just made me..." He trailed off, glancing down at his crotch. What had happened to him when Sam had said he'd have to feed him had felt like an orgasm, but he was still hard, and his boxers didn't feel sticky around him. "But...aren't you worried that...someone might see us?"

Sam glanced around the restaurant, and after a second, Dean did, too. It'd been fairly crowded when they'd first come in, but as time wore on, it looked like a lot of people had left. Most of the booths and tables - especially those near them - were empty. Even the waitstaff seemed to have thinned out considerably. Sam and Dean looked back to each other at almost exactly the same moment.

"I'm not all that worried about it," Sam said, and Dean nodded his agreement. "I mean, we're gonna have to be kinda discreet, since we _are_ in a public place, but we can still..." He glanced down at his plate as he fell silent. Dean did, as well. "So." He licked his lips, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Go ahead and feed me, Dean."

Dean swallowed so hard he felt his Adam's apple bounce, then reached for Sam's fork. His hand was trembling as he picked it up, he noticed, and he did his best to put an end to it. He sliced off the tip of the brownie and scooped it up, pausing before he put it in Sam's mouth.

"You would not _believe_ how hot this is for me," he told him, shaking his head.

"I think I might have an idea," Sam replied. "Now, c'mon, Dean. _Feed_ me."

That, almost an exact repeat of something he'd said to Sam earlier in the evening, was all the encouragement that Dean needed. He did exactly what Sam asked him to, feeding him a little faster than he'd been feeding himself, licking his own lips and swallowing every once in awhile as he watched him eat. With the amount of blood that felt like it was in his dick, he couldn't believe that he wasn't feeling lightheaded. But he was glad for it - he didn't want to miss so much as a second of this. He wanted to burn it into his memory.

Brownie. Apple crisp. The thing with cinnamon and sugar on it. Dean fed Sam all three of the remaining slices, pausing every so often so he could wash his latest mouthful down with a pull from his milkshake. He couldn't see his stomach or what was happening to it, because of the way that he was leaning forward to be hand-fed, but he imagined that it was getting heavier with every single bite. Bigger. Rounder. The anticipation of bring able to touch the bare skin of it practically made Dean's swollen cock dance.

When he finally shoved the plate, the fork resting neatly on it, to the edge of the table, it was empty. He waited patiently while Sam finished off the dregs of his milkshake, then dug his cell phone out and called for a cab. According to the dispatcher, it'd be fifteen or twenty minutes; it was a busy night. They could stay in the booth for awhile.

Sam was panting hard, after draining his milkshake. There was a slight pink tinge to his face, and a vaguely-stunned expression that had to have come from eating too much. He was still leaning forward, and Dean still couldn't see his belly, but his hands were in constant motion under the table, massaging it. For a second, Dean wondered if it'd been too much, then dismissed the concern. He wasn't puking. He'd probably met his limits, but he hadn't gone past them.

"Oh, god, Dean," he mumbled, and Dean was worried again, but, again, it stopped, when Sam smiled at him. "Feels like I swallowed a damn beach ball."

"Probably closer to a basketball," Dean replied, going off of what he'd last seen of Sam's stomach. "Or a soccer ball."

Sam frowned, shaking his head. "Aren't they about the same size?"

"...I don't know," Dean admitted. He wasn't too familiar with either of them. "Anyway. Probably doesn't matter what kinda ball it looks like you swallowed." He checked his watch. "Our cab'll be here soon - better get you outside."

Dean slid easily out of the booth, walking around to Sam's side. Since he hadn't even been able to go and get his own dessert, he assumed he'd need help getting up. Sure enough, Sam didn't protest. He turned slightly, scooting forward with an expression of immense effort on his face, then, sitting on the edge of the plush vinyl bench, he let Dean put his hands under his armpits and haul him to his feet. Dean grunted, shocked at how _heavy_ Sam had gotten - not to mention turned on. Sam groaned and cradled his pregnant-looking stomach. The change in position must have jostled it.

Dean slung his arm around Sam's shoulders and supported him on the slow way to the door. It was routine to him. Sam'd been prone to sprained ankles and broken toes during his high school athlete days, and more often than not, it was Dean who helped him hobble off the field. Of course, he wasn't hobbling now. It was more like a waddle. But the basics were still the same.

It was dark outside, being early December, and the sunset had left a faint chill in the air, but it was nothing compared to Denver - Dean was still perfectly comfortable in his T-shirt. Not that it would have mattered, considering they only had to stand in the golden neon that washed the buffet's parking lot for a few minutes. Their cab showed up in admirable time, and Dean loaded Sam into the back seat before climbing in after him.

It wasn't like it was particularly bright inside, but the driver (a guy who couldn't have been more than a few years older than the two of them) must still have been able to see Sam in the rearview mirror, because he glanced into it and whistled as he pulled out.

"Jeez, kid, I hope you won," he commented. Sam and Dean glanced at each other, confused, and the guy must have seen that, because he elaborated. "The eating contest. That's what it was, right?"

"Oh," Dean realized. Sure he'd assume that. It wasn't like he could think that Sam had a baby in there - it was pretty obvious that he was a guy. "Yeah." He nodded, resting a hand on top of Sam's engorged belly and feeling him shiver under it. "Yeah, of course he won."

The cab ride went well. The driver was even nice enough to drop them off as close to Sam's building as he could without charging them extra; he proclaimed that there was no way he was gonna make somebody that full walk. Dean was grateful, since he didn't have to carry his bloated boyfriend across campus and thanked the guy as Sam tipped him.

They took the elevator to the second floor. Sam didn't even want to try the stairs, and Dean couldn't really say that he blamed him. Much to Sam's (very vocal) relief, the hallway was deserted, all the doors closed and the lights dimmed. Just because Sam had come to terms with the idea of Dean seeing him like this didn't mean he felt the same way about his dormmates.

Back in Sam's room, Dean hit the lights, Sam dropped onto the edge of his small bed with a moan, and Dean finally got a good look at the belly he'd been feeding, both directly and indirectly, all night (or even a whole lot longer, depending on how you looked at it). Sam was leaning back with his arms behind him to support his considerable weight, so there was nothing to obstruct his view of it. Thick and almost perfectly rounded, it heaved impressively with every breath Sam took. His shirt had ridden up so much that the lower half of his navel was exposed. It could barely contain his girth anymore, after tonight's gluttony. Dean chose not to think about the fact that the shirt, being his originally, had probably been on the small side even back when Sam had had washboard abs.

He huffed out a fevered breath. Now that the two of them were alone, he doubted he'd be able to keep his urges under control for much longer. Watching Sam pant and wheeze, his eyes glazed and his stomach too full for his clothes to cover him, Dean blurted, "Christ, you're gorgeous."

Maybe he put more emphasis on the first syllable than the second. Maybe Sam noticed, because he grinned before responding.

"I'd ask if you really meant that," he said, "but I think I can tell that you do." He nodded, almost casually, to Dean's groin, and Dean felt a fiery blush cover his face and throat. It was way more lust than embarrassment, and he hoped that Sam knew that.

"Not like I can help it," he retorted. "Not with _that_ in front of me." He nodded to Sam's belly. Sam put a self-conscious hand on it. "Does it hurt?"

"Of course it does," Sam replied. His cheeks momentarily swelled with a burp he must have tried to keep down. "You saw how much I ate."

"I sure did," Dean confirmed happily. "You must be feeling like a beached whale." He answered Sam's scowl with a smile. "Lemme make you feel better, baby boy."

Dean pulled off his boots again - then Sam's Nikes, because there was no way he could bend over to get them off himself right now. He crawled up the bed, past Sam, and propped the pillow up against the wall before he leaned back against it. He spread his knees, and invitingly patted the bed between his legs. Grunting, Sam heaved himself across the mattress until he could settle into the spot that'd been designated for him, back against Dean's chest. They'd used to sit like this all the time in high school, even after Sam had finally hit his growth spurt junior year and shot up to three inches above Dean, but Dean couldn't recall them ever using it for this.

Sam slouched down until his head was tucked under Dean's chin, and Dean put his hands on the broad expanse of his stomach. He got his fingertips under the hem of his shirt and pulled it up the rest of the way, exposing his belly in a repeat of what he'd done earlier. He ran his hands slowly down the curve of it, wanting to inch down his boxers, but what he found instead was the unbelievably-tight waistband of his jeans. At least half an inch of flesh spilled over it. Dean frowned. Walking his fingers along the taut strip of straining denim, he found something he definitely hadn't expected: Sam's jeans were still buttoned and zipped.

"What the hell is this?" Dean exclaimed, immediately working at the button - he had to give Sam some relief. It was insanely difficult to shove it back through its eye, with how tight Sam's overfed stomach had made everything, but he made it after just under a minute of fumbling. The zipper instantly undid itself, and Sam's belly tumbled into Dean's hands, forcing the waistband of Sam's boxers down. "What the hell were you thinking, Sam? You should've unbuttoned these. You're practically bleeding down here."

Sam mumbled something that Dean didn't quite catch, even with how close they were. He leaned forward, chin touching Sam's scalp. "What was that?"

"I wanted to..." And again Dean didn't hear him.

"You wanted to what?" he pressed.

"I wanted to try and pop it off," Sam said, clearly for the first time. Dean blinked, and was sure that Sam felt his cock throb against the small of his back.

"Okay, well, that's...that'd be pretty awesome," Dean admitted. "But I think these jeans are too strong for you to do that. You wanna try that again, we'll buy you a really cheap pair."

"Yeah," Sam agreed, sounding a little drowsy. Dean hesitated, then pressed a kiss to the top of Sam's head.

He started rubbing in earnest then, focusing a lot of his efforts on the deep, hot furrow that his jeans had left behind. It faded slowly as he massaged it with the pads of his thumbs, and he idly wished he had some lotion to rub into Sam's stretched skin. Maybe he could pick something up tomorrow...but, wait, he remembered. This was the only time they were going to do this. That was the only reason Sam had agreed to this. Dean felt a stab of disappointment, but tried to bury it under his enjoyment of what was happening right exactly now.

Sam was deliciously warm, his skin soft and smooth even with how taut it was. The contents of him shifted sluggishly under Dean's hands, pliable probably because of how much milkshake he'd drunk. As Dean's hands ranged steadily over his belly, making small circles with his fingertips and digging in with his heels, Sam relaxed more and more. Dean was pretty sure that he was lightly dozing when he lowered his head in order to whisper a question in his ear: "Was this how full you got right after my boxes got here?"

Sam stirred against him, and Dean heard a soft burp. "No...well, not quite. This is as much as I've ever eaten before."

"But was it _close?"_ Dean pressed. He was eager to learn as much as he could about how Sam had cultivated the comfortable pudge around his waist.

"Yeah, I guess," Sam sighed gently as Dean traced the outlines of his love handles. "Um, I...couldn't move."

"You couldn't move?" Dean repeated, his heart beginning to speed up.

"I could make it from my desk to my bed, but it was hard. I practically had to drag myself," Sam replied. Dean looked at the distance between Sam's desk and his bed, noting how small it was, and something zinged down his spine. "I was so heavy. All I wanted to do was go to sleep. I felt like I'd pop if I made a wrong move."

His voice had changed slightly. Dean recognized the new tone in it - he was turning himself on, talking about this. But Dean had thought he was disgusted by his weight gain.

"Well, you must've liked it," Dean pointed out, trying to sound reasonable instead of excited. "It sounds like it happened more than once."

"It did," Sam admitted, then defended himself with, "but it wasn't like I did it on purpose."

"Oh, really?" Dean asked as he continued Sam's belly rub, intrigued.

"Everything just tasted so _good_ ," Sam confessed. Dean chuckled.

"I'll take that as a compliment," he said. After a moment, he kept talking. "So you just didn't realize what you were doing until you were so full it was weighing you down?"

"Yeah, I guess that's accurate," Sam replied after a short pause. He grunted when Dean squeezed him a little, just appreciating the sheer size of his middle. "D'you have to do that?"

"Sorry." He wouldn't do that again. Probably. He went back to just rubbing and petting Sam's stomach, and it gurgled contentedly against his palms. "So. You'd just be sitting at your desk, studying or doing homework or whatever it is nerds like you do after classes..." He got his hands under Sam's belly and hefted it appreciatively. It was _heavy_. Sam grunted again. "...and you'd have my box nearby, and you'd reach in and grab something, take a bite of it every once in awhile, not really even think about it. Then it'd be gone, so you'd reach in and grab something else, and you'd just keep doing that until you noticed this huge belly of yours was aching and making your jeans tight and you could barely move an inch 'cause you were just so damn _full_..."

A moan rolled out of Sam. He was panting faster now. Harder. Dean kept one hand on Sam's stomach and ran the other teasingly over the much smaller, much harder bulge directly below it.

"No way is this turning you on," Dean said. His voice had dropped into a husky purr without him realizing it. "Thought you _hated_ being fat."

"Shut up, jerk," Sam grunted. Dean squeezed his stomach again, making him gasp.

"Don't be a bitch," Dean scolded. "Anyway. Stuffing yourself at night when you had a box from me. You just kept doing that, didn't you? Day after day, week after week...and the weight started piling on. D'you have any idea how much sugar I put in the stuff I sent you? How much butter? Now wonder you blew up." He was back to a standard belly massage. Sam seemed to be enjoying it. "Maybe you didn't even notice at first. You were pretty taut when you left Kansas - hell, _I_ probably wouldn't have noticed an extra layer on you."

Dean could feel Sam's rapid heartbeat, thudding in his stomach. That probably meant that it was pounding in another part of him, too. He kept going.

"Hey, Sam," he began casually. "Did you ever go down to the dining hall when you were done stuffing yourself with my baking? Eat dinner? Because you were just on a goddamn roll and part of you wanted to get bigger and heavier?"

Sam growled, a throaty, animal sound that started in his chest. Dean felt it rumble against his hands and arms. He grinned, sure that Sam had never actually done that, but now he was thinking that he _should_ have.

"Maybe the real reason you didn't want me to come out here..." Dean moved a hand up to cup one of Sam's pecs. It was still round and swollen with muscle, but now there was a softer layer neatly covering that muscle. Dean started to knead Sam's nipple through the fabric of his T-shirt with his thumb, feeling it shrink and harden. "...is that you actually _like_ being a butterball. But you weren't sure I'd like it." He nuzzled into Sam's hair, breathing in the scent of his shampoo. "Sure, you were embarrassed. Just not for the reason you gave me."

"Figured that out all on your own, huh?" Sam panted out. Dean could tell, from the way that he kept his voice perfectly neutral, that he'd managed to hit the nail on the head.

"Wasn't that hard," Dean said modestly, downplaying it as he grinned into Sam's hair. "But we are so doing this again."

Sam shifted, body rolling against Dean's hands. Dean added, "Maybe we can even try and stuff you every single day that I'm here."

"Jesus, Dean," Sam groaned, twisting as best he could while he was this full so that he could practically shove his firm, bloated stomach against the hand that he had on it. Dean had figured out pretty early in their relationship that Sam's nipples were just as sensitive as his cock. Maybe his stomach was the same way. "Just go ahead and _fuck_ me already."

"Yeah, I don't wanna do that quite yet," Dean decided as an idea came to him. Sam squirmed in what he suspected was pure frustration. "I think I wanna feed you a little more first."

Sam tilted his head back so he could look up at him, a little bit of disbelief shining in his eyes. Dean nodded.

"Yeah, you know what I want you to do," he said. "Hands and knees, Sammy-boy."

"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me." Sam groaned with effort as he pushed his considerable bulk away from Dean and then painstakingly turned himself over. The motion made his distended belly wobble almost comically. "Haven't I already given you enough of a show tonight?"

"Hey, this ain't about me," Dean replied indulgently, reaching down to unbutton and unzip his jeans. He'd make this as easy as possible for Sam. "You need more to eat. I'm practically feeding my own body here - you could be a little more grateful."

Sam snorted, but fell silent as Dean pulled himself out of his boxers, letting his damp, throbbing cock flop free for the first time all night. Dean chose to believe he'd forgotten how big he was, since he hadn't seen this part of him in months - Dean didn't trust the internet or his cell phone company enough to send pictures of his junk, and he never would. He knew from his experience with other guys that he was bigger than normal when he was hard, and he'd gleefully passed that on to Sam, who'd chosen to believe him.

"Is it making you hungry?" Dean teased huskily. Sam adjusted his position, going down onto his forearms. Dean spread his legs a little further to accommodate him.

"Don't push your luck, Dean," Sam replied, still focused on Dean's cock. "I might just bite it off."

"Oh, you won't do that," Dean said, shaking his head. "How would I fuck you after this if I didn't have my cock?"

Sam glanced up at him again, through his eyelashes. It was probably more out of necessity than design, but Dean's heart still stuttered with the innocent sweetness of the expression.

"Hey," he said, reaching down and cupping the side of Sam's face. He rubbed his thumb across his cheekbone. "Even if this makes me go down, I'm not gonna leave you high and dry. I'll blow you, too, or jerk you off, or something?"

"Deal," Sam replied, then pulled away from Dean's hand in order to dip down and lap at the blushing head of his cock.

Another thing that Dean had figured out pretty early in their relationship was that Sam was a fantastic little cocksuck. Dean might have better lips for the job, but even they couldn't beat Sam's raw talent for it. He hadn't had any experience in the beginning, but he'd made up for it with enthusiasm, and as he learned what Dean liked and got more and more practice, he only got better. And Dean guessed that it was just like riding a bicycle, because Sam hadn't sucked anybody off since he'd left for college (he'd better not have, at least), but he didn't feel rusty at all to Dean.

Sam approached a blowjob with the same mentality he'd brought to school and sports and dating Dean: all or nothing. He took his time, dedicated his full attention to it, and didn't skimp on anything. He always started by licking, and this time was no exception. He bathed the head of Dean's cock with hot saliva that rapidly began to cool, his tongue soft and supple. He moved down then, seeming to tick off the ridges and veins on Dean's shaft in his head by flicking the tip of his tongue against them, and then cupped the whole thing around his girth, coating and stimulating every inch of bare skin down there. Dean's breath hitched in his throat. He was already building, and it was no wonder. He'd been practically all evening. He didn't stand a chance against Sam's magical mouth.

He felt Sam tug at his boxers, so his balls tumbled out. Dean tipped his head back and closed his eyes, humming as he exhaled through his nose. He needed to last. He couldn't come until he was in Sam's mouth; it'd be pointless otherwise.

But no way could he keep his eyes closed for long. Sam was definitely putting on a show, and Dean wanted to see it. So he opened his eyes and straightened his neck, watching Sam's ass, in the air and definitely more well-rounded than he remembered it being, twitch slightly as he took one of his balls into his mouth and suckled gently at it. He made a slight noise (Dean probably tasted muskier than usual, having spent about eight hours on a train today), but didn't let go. Dean shifted his eyes down to his stomach, stupidly full of empty calories and visible on either side of his back. It bobbed as he worked and swallowed.

Sam took Dean's other ball into his mouth, swirling them together, juggling them with his mouth. Dean groaned quietly, unable to hold the sound back as waves of nerve-tangling pleasure crashed through him but not wanting to distract Sam. After fifteen or twenty seconds, Sam let Dean's balls fall out of his mouth. Dean watched as a string of saliva stretched between his sac and Sam's lower lip. He curled his toes, trying not to come at that image.

Sam finally moved onto the actual sucking. He lifted his head and pressed his lips to the very tip of Dean, eyes fluttering closed, and then parted them and slipped his mout down over his length. Dean drew in a sharp breath, pulse pounding in his temples, nerve endings alive. Sam moved, mouth sliding up and down, cheeks hollowing out as he started to suck, tongue fluttering and twitching against the underside of Dean's cock. Dean's hips began popping forward with more and more force, driving his head deep into Sam's throat. He wasn't worried about him throwing up - they'd worked on tamping down his gag reflex, and he could take it.

Sam sped up, taking Dean to the root. Dean grabbed his head, burying his fingers in Sam's hair. He bucked, fingernails digging into Sam's scalp, and felt something in him release. Like a spring that had been coiled much too tight for far too long being let go. His orgasm burst through him, out of him and into Sam's mouth, fast and raw. It was over way too soon, leaving him dizzy and breathless and, above all, unsatisfied.

Dean pried his stiff hands out of Sam's wavy, silky hair as Sam kept sucking. His throat moved as he swallowed, and there was an expression of concentration on his face, like he was focusing on trying to get every last drop out of Dean. After a moment, he pulled his mouth off of him, licked his lips, swallowed again, and stated, "You're still hard."

"Yep." Dean nodded. "Wasn't enough." It was wonderfully surprising to him, that this thing had turned him on so much. Nothing else had ever had this kind of effect on him - nothing else had ever come close.

"Then fuck me." Sam grunted as he pushed himself up onto his knees, making brief, intense eye contact with Dean before moving to turn around. It was awkward because of his ponderous belly and the bed's small size. Dean watched with interest. His erection had wilted a little after coming, but now it was perking back up.

"Feed you, fuck you," he commented, drawing his legs up so they weren't in Sam's way and swinging them over the edge of the mattress. He stood up, knees weak from the rush of hormones and endorphins. Sam had to have lube in here - there was no way he wasn't whacking off - and he probably kept it hidden away in one of the drawers of his dresser, where there was no danger of anyone ever seeing it. So that was where he went, stepping out of his jeans and boxers on the way. He didn't need them anymore. "You're sounding more like a pet than a boyfriend lately."

Sam snorted. Dean had his back to him as he knelt to rummage through his drawers, but he heard the rustling of fabric as, presumably, he peeled himself out of his clothes.

"I sure hope you never did that second thing with any of your pets," he muttered. Dean decided not to mention that he'd never really had pets. They'd had a cat when he was really little, when his mom was still alive, but they'd gotten rid of it as soon as they figured out he was allergic. Actually, Sam probably knew that.

"Never had a pet quite like you," he replied as he shoved a neatly-folded stack of underwear out of the way. It was technically true. He raised an eyebrow at an unopened box of condoms and a big plastic...jeez, how did Sam fit that thing in him? But then he found what he was looking for and plucked the bottle out of its little niche among Sam's clothes, standing up. He pulled his shirt off before turning to face Sam again.

Sam was naked. And hard. And chubby, and full, and slightly flushed from what must have been the effort of getting undressed. He was kneeling on his bed, hands on either side of his belly, cradling it. The smooth swell of his love handles sat perfectly above his hips. The muscle definition of his arms and legs was still there (though Dean was sure they were looking beefier), and the sheer contrast of that with his middle was kind of hot in and of itself. Dean's overwhelming lust had been tamed, just a little, by his earlier orgasm, but seeing Sam waiting for him like that brought it all rushing back with the force of a hurricane making landfall. A growl, rumbling up out of his chest, he scrambled onto the bed and pressed his lips to Sam's.

Unsurprisingly, he tasted like pizza and sugar and Dean's own come - a flavor he was familiar with because they had a habit of kissing after one of them sucked the other off. He let the bottle of lube fall from his fingers, forgotten for the moment, so that he could press both hands into the small of Sam's back and push him forward. His stomach bumped into Dean's own, and Dean's erection bobbed against the bottom of it and against Sam's dick, too.

"How're we gonna do this?" Sam gasped out when they broke, Dean having gotten his fill for the moment.

"Might be a little complicated," Dean replied. He groped around on the bedspread until he found the bottle of lube again. "This bed's pretty damn small."

"I know," Sam said, sounding as guilty as if it were his own personal fault.

"Okay." Dean glanced around the little closet of a room. He'd always had a talent for seeing exactly how certain things would best go together - that was why he was so good at fixing cars and baking. It carried over into sex, and within a few seconds, he knew how to set them up. "Got it. You stay on the bed..." He climbed off of it himself, and didn't miss the disappointment that was only on Sam's face for a heartbeat. "Don't worry, I'm coming back. Now, face the wall, and put your hands on it."

Sam followed his instructions to the letter, settling into almost exactly the position Dean had envisioned. His boyfriend's tawny back stretched out in front of him, traced with sweeping lines of muscle, and the curve of his spine seemed impossibly, elegantly long. Combined with the visible parts of his stomach, it made Dean swallow reflexively. He almost buried himself in him right then with no prep and no foreplay.

Sam glanced over his shoulder, only his eyes and the hair falling into them visible. "Good?"

"Lift your ass a little," Dean instructed. Sam did, and spread his legs a little more, too, exposing the pink pucker of his opening. "Okay. _That's_ good."

He pressed himself against Sam. Skin-to-skin, so close that the sweat that was beginning to rise on both of them mingled. Dean's cock was lined up with Sam's, directly below it, Sam's sac resting on the very base of his shaft. He popped open the bottle of lube that was still in his hand, squirting a generous amount onto two fingers. He snapped the top back down and tossed the bottle aside, not bothering to see where it landed. It wasn't like it could get lost in a room this small.

Dean pulled back just a little, in order to put his hand down between himself and Sam. He relied on memory to guide him down to Sam's entrance without wiping the lube off on one of the near-perfect globes of his thick buttocks. Memory didn't let him down, and soon he was greasing up Sam's hole and then sliding his fingers in past those two familiar rings of muscle. They were firm, but Sam'd been through this before, and he started to relax with Dean's scissoring and stretching, knowing what was coming.

"Been keeping yourself loose for me?" Dean panted against the skin of Sam's back. He was staring wide-eyed at it, but he wasn't really seeing it, or even the moles that were scattered across it like drops of dark chocolate. He was seeing the inside of him, pink and moist and quivering.

"Sort of," Sam admitted, sounding like someone had taken a belt sander to his vocal cords. "I've been busy."

"Eating or studying?" Dean asked. He heard Sam draw in a breath to answer him, but he cut him off as he put his free hand on one of his love handles to steady both of them. "Wait, never mind. I can tell."

Sam was just so _hot_ against Dean as he worked on getting him ready. Like there was a fire burning right under his skin. Every time one of them moved, waves of heat rolled off of him, and the head of Dean's cock brushed up against the underside of his belly, which was hot in a completely different way. Whatever satisfaction Dean's orgasm had given him was completely gone now, and soon, he pulled his fingers out of Sam with a groan and latched onto his other love handle with them still slick.

"Sorry, Sam, but I'm just gonna have to call good enough here," he grunted, pulling himself out from under Sam (creating some truly delicious friction in the process) and lining up.

"Fine with me," Sam replied breathlessly. Literally right before Dean was about to slam in, he asked, "What happened to feeling weird about having sex in a dorm room?"

"Think you're forgetting that that was before I watched you practically eat your own body weight in greasy pizza," Dean replied. He was shivering with the effort of holding himself back. "I could have sex on the fuckin' quad right now if I had to."

Sam started to chuckle, but cut himself off with a low cry when Dean entered him. Dean didn't bother being gentle; they'd both been waiting for this all night. He plowed in, and Sam took him to the hilt with no problems.

"Greedy at both ends," Dean almost spat out. Sam bowed his head, breathing hard, belly jiggling.

Dean was almost tempted to draw this out. Being inside of Sam felt like more of a homecoming than walking into his old house back in Lawrence ever could, and after so long apart, it was more of a relief than a pleasure. But he couldn't stand to take it slow, and he'd already come once, possibly twice. Sam would probably go crazy. So he pulled out all the stops and just went for it.

He pistoned in and out of Sam, taking handfuls of the pudge on his sides. There was barely enough there for it; they'd have to fix that. Fatigue started to waver through him after less than a minute, and he knew he'd be lousy with pulled muscles tomorrow morning, but he didn't care. This was worth it. The pleasure battering him now (much like he was battering Sam) was indescribable next to the blowjob, and the blowjob had been pretty damn good.

Sam was pushing back against him, moving with him, so he must be enjoying it, too. Dean was vaguely aware that he was whipping rapidly back and forth over a hot, tight little bud that was as full and firm as a ripe grape, and of the fact that Sam was making noises he desperately tried to stifle every time he did that. The bed was creaking with the force of Dean's thrusts. His bare ass brushed rhythmically against the wall. Sam's fingernails dug into the cheap paint on the opposite one.

Dean eventually had to drop his pace a little. He was starting to worry that he'd really hurt himself, throw out his back or something, if he kept it up. Sam didn't seem to mind, or if he did, he didn't say anything coherent about it. It was just all moans and yelps that he struggled to bite back. Dean wished he wouldn't. He wanted to wake the whole dorm up, show every single one of them what a beautiful glutton his boyfriend had been for him tonight.

Going just a bit slower meant that Dean could let go of Sam's love handles. It was hard to pry his fingers out of them, and they'd left behind deep, angry red marks that, guiltily, he realized were going to bruise. He soon forgot about that, though, when he let his hands slide down onto Sam's belly. He marveled at the size, the roundness, all over again, and his pleasure spiked as he fucked Sam.

"Holy shit, you're just full as a tick, aren't you?" he commented without thinking. In response, Sam ruthlessly ground his hips back against Dean, groaning.

Dean didn't really have the breath to spare for dirty talk. Everything was going into the brutal movement of his pelvis. But if Sam liked it...

"We gotta get you bigger, Sam," Dean panted, going back to something he'd thought to himself earlier. "So I've got more to hang onto when we do this. I'm gonna put you on a strict diet from now on - pizza only. And ice cream. And beer, plenty of beer. Beer's got a lot of calories, right?" Even if it didn't, Sam was a slutty drunk. Dean could appreciate that every once in a while. "I want you at least..." He moved his hands up and down Sam's stomach, like he was evaluating it. "...twice as full every night, from now on."

Sam moaned, elbows bending, arms shaking. Then, unexpectedly, he burped. It caught Dean by surprise, since he hadn't done it in a while, and the back of Sam's neck turned pink as he blushed. "S-sorry - "

"You're okay," Dean soothed, cutting him off. He was still moving, so the words came out a little jerky. "Trust me, that's not gonna kill the mood. I think I might even kind of like it." It didn't turn him off, at least. "Means you're not as full as you could be."

Sam, still blushing, glanced quizzically over his shoulder at Dean.

"You burp to make more room," Dean explained. "If you were _really_ full, you'd be hiccuping."

Sam faced the wall again, breathing out, "Ah."

Dean licked his lips, then leaned in. He couldn't get all that close to either one of Sam's ears, but he did his best. Then he began to whisper.

"As long as I'm here," he promised, "I'm gonna try and keep your fat gut so full of my baking that you'll be hiccuping the whole time."

Sam shuddered violently. Then he kept shuddering. And he started yelling, and banging on the wall, and Dean's hand, which had ranged down to the lower hemisphere of Sam's stomach, was splattered with hot, sticky fluid, and that was when he realized that Sam was coming. He'd just never seen him come like this before. Sam's orgasms made him gasp and tense up and maybe whisper Dean's name. He didn't shake and _scream_.

And then Dean was coming, too, from thinking about that, and from Sam's walls clenching around him in climax.

He had no idea how much he actually produced. After what he'd spilled down Sam's throat, it couldn't take all that much to empty his balls. All he knew was that it was pretty short, since he finished around the same time Sam did, but it was powerful. It gave him what he wanted.

He felt like just collapsing when he was done, but he couldn't, because Sam was dreamily sliding down, hands coming off the wall, and Dean had to catch him. He slid out of him, finally flaccid, as he turned him over and dropped him onto the bed.

"No, no, no, no way. You don't wanna lay on your stomach right now," he said.

Someone in another room was pounding angrily on a shared wall, and Dean would have pounded back, because they could go to hell, but he was too spent. It was all he could do to hit the light switch and tumble down onto the bed next to Sam. It was still too small, but he didn't care.

He wasn't sure how long it was before he found the energy to speak again. It couldn't've been too long, though, because neither he nor Sam had fallen asleep.

"I wanna marry you," Dean said.

Sam mumbled something that was probably an acknowledgement of that statement.

"I'm serious. I love you," Dean stressed. It was vitally important Sam understood this. "As soon as I graduate, promise. We'll get married."

"Long as you don't make me wear a dress," Sam agreed drowsily.

"You won't _fit_ in a dress by then."

Sam didn't respond to that. Dean tried to start another conversation a few seconds later.

"That was the best sex we've ever had," he declared.

"Never mind the fact we haven't even had sex a dozen times," Sam mumbled.

Dean considered turning his head in order to glare at Sam in the darkness, then decided it wasn't worth the effort. "You've been counting?"

"I didn't say it wasn't great, awesome sex," Sam pointed out. "'Sides. We'll hit a dozen easy while you're here - maybe two dozen."

Dean laughed once, unable to muster a real chuckle. Sam coughed slightly.

"I've been saving one of your turtle brownies," he began.

"That's what those caramel things are called, huh?"

"It's in the top right drawer of my desk. In Saran wrap," Sam continued.

"Yeah? It is?"

"I want it," Sam decided. His stomach gurgled.

Somehow, Dean got back up again.


End file.
